for fear of the devil
by mad as a
Summary: It had just been a political sleight of hand. Nothing unusual, but it was just unfortunate that Kuroyuri had to be a piece in it, and it was Haruse who had landed the role of sacrifice.


It wasn't a secret.

Haruse and Kuroyuri were extremely close; that much was fact. It was only normal to see them together, Kuroyuri curled up in the other's arms or his fingers laced underneath the man's chin as he was paraded around on his shoulders. Haruse was there for him when he went to sleep, when he woke up, when he ate and had crumbs on the corner of his mouth. Kuroyuri didn't remember a time when Haruse wasn't there, and he had never considered it either. Haruse was Haruse. Haruse was always there.

It had prompted him once, when his head had been against his broad chest and was just almost asleep, but hadn't quite made it there yet "Haruse?"

"Yes, Kuroyuri-sama?"

"You'll never go anywhere, right?"

There was a faltering silence, and it only made Kuroyuri curl around him tighter to hear that the answer couldn't come right away.

"Haruse."

"...Of course not, Kuroyuri-sama."

"Promise."

"I promise."

Satisfied, he let his body relax and his mind drift.

_Promise._

–

Haruse had only been doing his duty, even though he had been told—ordered—not to. But Kuroyuri had never been able to be mad at him for very long; it never got him anywhere, it never gave him anything, and after all Haruse needed company and who would take care of him if it wasn't Kuroyuri? No one else could do it right, because Haruse had never taken care of _them_; only Kuroyuri knew how things needed to be. And it was his duty, since Haruse was his begleiter and no one else's.

Every night he visits and talks to him, even though the room has long sunk chills into his bones, and tells him what had happened during the day so he wouldn't be lost when he comes back. He climbs on his lap with care and rests his head against his broad chest, and listens quietly for the muffled heartbeat that lags between each_ thump_. Haruse never broke his promise, he thinks, since Haruse is still here. He just broke in two pieces like a simple jigsaw puzzle, but he's still here. He never went anywhere.

"You promised, Haruse." He says, with a tone that never changes no matter what he talks about, and he smiles because of course Haruse knows, as rigid as he is. He doesn't expect an answer, though, as he traces a finger along Haruse's hand and the topic slowly shifts into something completely new, because Haruse isn't fully there right now, and he doesn't have the heart to answer.

But that's okay. Haruse will be back soon, he knows, and he can answer then.

–

To be fancy, it was assassination. To be accurate, it was murder. To apply it to a warsfeil, it was to be expected.

The culprit didn't afford anything particularly showy, and was fairly quick about it—he never took more than a step into the room, most likely. It was a clean cut through the neck, and the head that had become loose fell flatly to the floor. No bounce, no rolling; the expression never changed. Around the cut were small singes, and the loose threads peeking around from around it were just barely burnt. But Kuroyuri hadn't seen any of that.

He had come down the hall like he always did, and opened the door like he always did, and came in like he always did, only he stopped short of a greeting when he saw things that weren't like they always were. A thin darkness had covered the room, and only a strand of light from the hall had managed to slip inside, just barely running past where Haruse still sat. And though everything felt so still, he had still walked forward and carefully climbed onto Haruse's lap.

The blood had long since dried, but it had drained itself everywhere; a jagged and dry maroon against a dark, dark black and a tarnished gold. And the top of his collar was missing, he noticed, as his hands ghosted over the body, not sure where to start—after all the effort he had put in to make sure Haruse always had something clean to wear. It's like they didn't even care.

His hand finally found root over Haruse's heart, and his forehead rested just by it. His heart had fallen quiet, and he could feel the strong _coldness_ seeping through the layers of uniform, pricking his own skin. He did not hear the air struggling to go in and out of a slow pair of lungs, and he did not hear his own breathing either. The static silence refused to make itself known.

It was awhile before anyone had come down that hall; it was in a far wing, and a detour at most. But a lone soldier had needed it to head down and change shifts with a watchman, and he had been obediently trained to investigate open doors and minor disturbances like a fool, but a good soldier.

But the sound of his breath and his footsteps and the way his clothes swept was so jarring and he made it only two steps in the door before Kuroyuri's hands clenched, never turning around, and the man was sliced into too many pieces and fell to the floor. Ah. Now Haruse wasn't the dirtiest thing in the room anymore; that was much better. But he still didn't move. He didn't want to move, though he didn't know why. But was better like this, like how it always was, so it made sense not to move. So he didn't. And then another soldier came by, looking for the one who was supposed to take the next shift, and he was just as obediently trained.

He considered putting the two back together again, with mismatched body parts and a tongue from the eyes and a rib in the thigh but he remembered, there was someone else on the floor that shouldn't have been, so he carefully crawled off Haruse's lap, readjusted his blanked and wiped off some dust, before heading behind the chair and picking up the head that had fallen down. He had been facing the back wall, and his hair had gotten messy from the fall. There was blood on his cheeks and the corner of his mouth, so of course Kuroyuri had to wipe that off for him, like Haruse had always done for him. When he was done rubbing off the blood and combing his fingers through the others hair, he held him high, so it looked like his head was still attached to his body, just barely. But he lowered it, frowning.

"I don't have enough needle and thread."

Said all the king's horses, and all the king's men.

–

It takes two more trained soldiers before they finally come looking in twos, and another few pairs before they come in a mob. Kuroyuri has taken a seat on Haruse's lap again, leaning against his chest, eyes heavy and nearly glued tight, and only kept from sleeping by a surreal awareness in the back of his mind and the clambering noise the stray dogs keep making. In his lap is Haruse's head, held close to him in a grip that looks gentle but is nothing but firm, but his face is towards Kuroyuri, and not the men.

It looks peaceful, but these men are quicker than the last, and blind themselves to the contrast of carnage and the child by heading straight to accusations. They're far too loud, and it even makes Kuroyuri stop before he raises a hand to kill them. Murderer, they call him, Do you know what you've done? they say, and a million more voices rise caught in the moment with more words of fright and hate, and a few small voices in the back discern his identity.

Warsfeil, Black Hawk, killer, killer, killer. But Kuroyuri is too tired for this, and they're giving him a headache. You'll be arrested, executed, finally, thank god, psycho, gather up the corpses, restrain that child—

"Who killed Haruse?"

And suddenly, everything stops.

Well? he says, without saying anything. His eyes are half-lidded but not weary, and his mouth hurts because he hasn't smiled in hours, even through all the blood and cold.

Who killed Haruse?

He closes his eyes after the heads have been pulled off from from those dozen men, and the next dozen footsteps are only saved because they came with someone more familiar with the manner of warsfeil and the thin line they all tread between _them_ and the _Empire._

–

It's spread like a scandal in less than half an hour.

Soldiers line up around the door, too afraid to even peek in past what they can see from the open door in the hall way, and the officer that discovered the bodies and boy and lived sent messengers to everyone it was relevant to. The crowd swells with nobody soldiers and a few in charge of keeping some peace but they can't get a toe or finger in without someone losing it.

Kuroyuri doesn't budge for orders, and he doesn't budge for threats, no matter how much they yell and how much he wants to sleep. He doesn't trust them in the slightest, and he doesn't want to move. Even if he can't explain why, it made sense, so it was enough.

By now, anyone who matters and cares were already in a meeting discussing the situation, prematurely, as they do in the military, and it finally takes Katsuragi, who was already busy from answering the other generals and rewriting Ayanami's schedule, to get Kuroyuri to leave.

"I don't trust them," he says, firmly on Haruse's lap, and still holding himself tight against his chest.

Katsuragi only shakes his head, understanding, but still bound by orders. Kuroyuri doesn't want to let go, even though the arms have become colder still and the chest is empty and devoid of even the subtle warmth there used to be, but he finally comes down, fixing the blanket again, and taking lingering for almost forever before letting go of Haruse's hand, and he finally comes to Katsuragi by the door. He sees Katsuragi's gaze drop downward to the head he clutched so close against him, but he makes no excuses nor does he say much of anything.

He walks out, and Katsuragi takes the lead again as the soldiers pressed themselves against the wall.

–

Kuroyuri isn't numb as he walks down the halls with something so precious in his hands or against the every commotion, but he is deaf. He doesn't want to hear them, or anyone, and they shuffle him around here and there but nowhere he doesn't want to be. He sees Ayanami only once, as he's presented to him as though were were someone new entirely, and he had seen the expression he when he had come around the corner, the one that he can't imagine in words, but had steeled when faced with a crowd of everyone who had no need to see it. Almost immediately, Kuroyuri apologizes, but he doesn't know for what. There is blood all over his uniform and face and hair and his hands are weary from creating carnage and haven for soldiers and the last piece of his begleiter, but he isn't sorry for any of that.

Ayanami says nothing to him, and is pulled away elsewhere to discuss as the other generals pull up the corners of their mouths, and their eyes remain unkind. Kuroyuri is vaguely aware that this is no longer the life of a human _killer_ against a _warsfeil_, or a killer _warsfeil_ against human _soldiers_, but the politics piling up against a _warsfeil_ Chief of Staff and _human_ generals; these being less expendable than anything else. But Kuroyuri remains quiet and monitored, and is only asked for an informal testimony once.

What did you see when you came into the room?

Haruse's head not attached to his body.

And who killed the soldiers?

I did.

Why?

Because they were where they weren't supposed to be.

All the while he still held Haruse tight against his chest, and his eyes shut tight. But carefully, carefully, like he was afraid he would fall apart.

And in a way, he was.

It was something no one could tell, though, and because he heard little of what was happening he was able to smile, but only when they were alone or in the halls, where there was no one but Katsuragi to watch them.

–

At night, his dreams are mangled patchwork.

They come in scraped and broken bits and pieces, flashing red against white and mixed with death and slaughter and agitation, pooling out of his back in wrapping around his mind. His hands flex and unflex, and he wakes up sore and his throat and lungs are tight, even though he can breath just fine, and in the moments of fragile waking he still remembers what he's seen, and it's as if he's never slept at all.

In some instances it's a nameless wretched man, his face bashed in with anger and his bones broken with vengeance. He hurts him over and over, and even when the man's throat has gone raw and all the fight has left him, he stomps on his stomach and makes him go harder. Again and again and again until there's almost nothing left, and then it's a child. A woman. A general. A human. Over and over and over.

No matter how much he twists and grips the sheets in his sleep or how much blood soaks into his skin it doesn't make him feel any better. When he wakes up agitated and stressed with string tying him together at the bone, so his shoulder blades have knit and it's difficult to uncurl his fingers, he can only sit up and curl against himself tightly and _breathe_. It takes hours to get used to being small before he can unknit himself again, and greets Haruse at the bedside table.

He feels better when he holds Haruse against him, and sometimes he dreams of nothing but black when he falls asleep curled up around him. But he doesn't want to hurt him, should the patchwork and needles return, so he has to let him go. It's okay, though, he knows Haruse will always be there in the morning for him. Always.

After all, it's not like he can go anywhere now.

He picks him up from the table like he always does now, and puts him in his lap as he lies against the head board. They're not allowed to leave the room anymore, but Kuroyuri can't find himself minding. This room, though it's not his own, is much warmer than Haruse's old one, which isn't that bad at all. He talks to Haruse more now, about everything, anything, and it's no longer reciting what is known, but conversations.

They're stories and thoughts that he tells him, things he'd like to do, a toy he'd like to have, someone he'd like to break; things of mundane importance, but take up the space of the empty room. He smiles with his eyes closed, and if he pauses long enough, he can hear Haruse answer back sometimes. And the conversation goes, on and on. On the bed, as Kuroyuri brushes his hair, and then Haruse's, and dresses, and on. Silence has begun to make him flick his eyes sideward and chew his lips as it ebbs and flows at the back of his mind; the pauses between words, the wait for Haruse to speak, as difficult as it is with half his vocal chords missing, and the forced silences from when guards by the door talk louder than they should, and stay the only awareness he has of the outside world. Other than the food slid between the cracks of the door and a fleeting hand, he has no visitors, and isn't allowed any.

The quiet in the back of his head overwhelms him with his own thoughts as he pens them up; he isn't used to not telling Haruse things He hasn't told Haruse about his dreams, and he hasn't told him anything about himself lately. He knows Haruse knows this, but he doesn't comment on it. It makes his chest feel half empty and falling emptier still, and sometimes he hates being locked inside with nowhere else to go.

It's all right, Kuroyuri-sama, He can hear him say with no need of context, Don't worry.

It's not all right, he thinks, and the words imprint themselves heavily and sink into his mind.

–

But even Kuroyuri understands that a corpse is still a corpse.

He thought and thought and weighed scales in his mind for a long time, and when they finally tipped, he argued with the guards on the other side of the door for longer. He sat with his back against it, restraining his words more than he thought he needed to. Eventually he outlasted them, so many days later, and received a visit from Katsuragi, who had only become busier has time had passed. But his eyes remained indifferent, and his mouth sat in a down-turned line instead of his usual smile in respect, for even if Kuroyuri could push his cheeks upwards these were not smiling matters. Not for him.

Kuroyuri sits cross-legged on the edge of his bed with Haruse sitting in his lap still, having not moved from where he was last seen in public. He can tell, though Katsuragi is nearly flawless at hiding it, that the overwhelming scent of rotting was a little sickening to the stomach, and he thinks it's a little funny.

Despite everything, Kuroyuri laughs, because he knows it's obvious, and he wasn't oblivious to it though he had kept Haruse close to him so long that he _must_ have been to have become impervious. "See? It's like that." He says, with little explanation, and holds Haruse up in front of him, just by his own head. The lips were rotting, and the rest had been infested with the same. The hair seemed thinner and scraggly, and the eyes had become dull and dry. He watches Katsuragi look over Haruse, and when he's sure he's finished, he lowers it again, as if it weren't a piece of rotting corpse at all. "But I'm not getting rid of Haruse."

The corner of Katsuragi's mouth can't help but curve, and were it more his character to to do, he would have pinched the bridge of his nose. But not out of exasperation.

"You really are a kid."

Kuroyuri only smiles as sweetly as he can.

–

As he walks down the halls, he passes by the generals who had remained set on staying adversaries, and they only grumble and harbor dirty looks that they might think were subtle. He only sees them from the corner of his eye, but just from that he can tell that they've lost.

If he didn't have two escort-guards and Katsuragi walking close enough to feel their uniforms brush, he saw himself killing them right there. He still sees Katsuragi never turning his head towards them, and he and he sees the unfaltering gaze. Even with the other two no-name soldiers, it's difficult to control the twitch in his finger.

The ride is quiet, and Katsuragi mainly reads. Though they weren't given any restriction on how much they could talk, there is little to talk about anyway, and more than enough guards have joined them on their ride bearing ears like hawks. Ayanami, as always, evaded direct punishment, though he was still held responsible for the actions of his subordinate, and given no compensation for the death of the other. Katsuragi told him this before they left the room, and though the words never left his mouth, he quite clearly betrayed that it was all politics.

Since nothing was said, there was nothing to react to, and Kuroyuri settled for nothing again, absently running his fingers along the corners of the cloth wrappings in his hands. He had wanted to speak to Ayanami directly, to say something more even though his true request was entirely selfish and what right did _he_ have to request anything of Ayanami-sama now?, but he was denied. He had received more than a light sentence for what he had done, for being a true warsfeil, and he knew it was essentially an insult to the higher ups and system of laws in the Empire (for a _warsfeil_) to be given such a blatant leave from the stronghold for such a petty thing in the eyes of everything.

But _still._

–

They had stripped him bare, piece by piece, with a purely professional air and no sense of enjoyment in the slightest. Despite their disapproving looks, Kuroyuri watched them throughout all of it, making sure they were careful enough, making sure they were doing it just right. There was absolutely no way he could accept anything less. But as he watched, he couldn't help but be aware of his own morbid fascination with the act, and how much he wished he could do it himself—to be more personal, to do more than nothing. But that hadn't been part of the deal.

Soon he was bare, and though Kuroyuri wanted to ask if he could keep the excess, it was shot down before he could even ask. He didn't say much after that, since they had to take it away for an hour or so, to alter the skull just slightly to keep it from cracking or grinding itself into dust. He had wanted to watch as they did this, too, but he was treading a thin rope already, so he couldn't persist as much as he liked, settling back into his seat with uncertainty and his fingers gripping along the bottom of the chair.

The guards kept more distance than they should have, and Katsuragi just read.

–

The knots have been untying themselves from his back, and he's been able to ward off the mismatched dreams more often. He wakes up less often now, and he wakes up more confused than he used to. There are pebbles lining up along his back and spilling over him, but he can't seem to feel them anymore. He feels less like he understands anything, but he tells himself not to think about it, because things are a little better now.

Haruse has become colder in his hands, and he his eyes are no longer dull. He runs a finger just under the teeth, where the lips should be, and kisses him anyway because that's how it's supposed to be. Now he lies back instead of against the headboard, with Haruse against his chest, against his heart that still beats. He was a beautiful black; a blank color, nicer than white, kinder than anything else, and he can still see his eyes and hair and feel his skin if he closes his eyes long enough. And sometimes, only sometimes, he can feel hands running through his hair, stroking him, or a warm embrace.

"Good morning, Haruse."

Good morning, Kuroyuri-sama.


End file.
